Page 35 of A Love Like Candle Light

“Stop apologizing, Kylie. Whether I write a damned report at home or here, it doesn’t matter. As long as I have paper and a pen, I might as well do it in lovely company.”

Oh, thank God it’s hard to see colors in this flickering candlelight, because my cheeks are beet red. ‘Lovely company?’ I’ll join the melting wax of those tea lights.

I get myself a puzzle book and pen and pretend to solve sudoku while I watch him write his report.

He’s got nice handwriting for a man. It’s legible. Even upside down.

Why is that kind of hot?

I ignore the way the candlelight is flickering way too much for the movements we’re making and keep telling myself the smoke is not turning into random signs. He’s so nice for staying here, even though he’s busy. I wouldn’t fault him for leaving.

There are no more loud noises. No more things falling off shelves. It’s quiet. Only his pen flying over the paper, and mine as I occasionally jot down a number make any sound.

“I think I’ll be fine for the rest of the night,” I announce once he’s done writing his report an hour later. “Maybe the ghost has gone to sleep.”

“Are you sure?” I expect amusement, but instead I find worry written all over his face.

“Yes, I’ll be fine.” I wave him off, try to sound nonchalant, then the next moment I squeal.

BANG.

I shut my mouth.

“Seems like your ghost wants me to stay.” Erik chuckles, rolling his shoulders and tilting his head to stretch his neck. “It likes me! That makes two out of three for this home.”

God, that grin. It makes me want to blurt out that he’s three for three, but a part of me hesitates. He seems almost too perfect.

Then again, if both Abby and the unnamed ghost like him, maybe I should trust their judgment.

Chapter 12

Erik

“Hey, Aunt Molly.” I shout into her house as I enter through the unlocked door front door.

“Art room!” she shouts back, so loudly I could probably hear her from Wayward Hollow’s main square, five kilometers away. I shake my head with a grin. Of course. Where else would I find her?

This is the house I grew up in, after my parents landed in jail, halfway between Wayward Hollow and its neighbor town Kinstead.

“The best of both worlds,” she used to argue when I got annoyed about living so far away from everyone. For a cup of coffee and pastries, we used to drive to Wayward Hollow. Bobby, who owned the café before Caleb was around, baked a mean lemon cake. However, if she was looking for art supplies, to Kinstead we went.

The familiar scent of oil paints greets me as soon as I step into the room. Her easel by the window is cast in bright afternoon light, streaming in through the ceiling high window. Paint cracks under my shoes, the result of twenty years not giving a damn if any splashed on the ground.

“One second,” she mumbles without looking away from her current work. It’s a nature scene, so peaceful it could be a still out of an old Disney movie. A little creek flowing through a red and golden forest, water glittering in the morning light shining through the trees.

“There.” She paints one more stroke of white highlight, then takes a step back from her easel.

“Client work?” I ask and step behind her to see it from her perspective.

She shakes her head. “I was struck by inspiration.” With a satisfied nod, she turns to me and opens her arms.

“Wait.” I reach behind her to undo her apron and pull it off her, neatly setting it on her chair with the wet paint up. I’ve had enough shirts ruined by oil paint stains to last a lifetime.

“Whoops. Silly me.”

Now I give her a tight hug, close my eyes and take a deep breath. For a moment, I’m three years old again and all is okay in the world.

“That’s a big one,” she mumbles as I let her go and shoots me a concerned look. “Is everything okay?”